Manuel troubled himself little with questions of art, but often it occurred to him that the sculptor’s theories, rather than sincere convictions, were screens behind which to conceal his deficiency.
Alejo would make a portrait or a bust, and they would say to him: “It doesn’t look like the subject.” Whereupon he would reply: “That’s a distinctly minor matter.” And in everything he did it was the same.
Manuel grew to like these afternoon reunions in the studio, and he listened attentively to all that Alex’s friends had to say.
Two or three were sculptors, others painters and writers. Not one of them was known. They spent their time scurrying from one theatre to another, and from café to café, meeting anywhere at all for the pleasure of berating their friends. Outside of this especial theme in which all blended into a perfect harmony, they discussed other matters with peaceful digressions. There was a continuous debating and planning, affirming today, denying tomorrow; poor Manuel, who possessed no basis for judgment, was thrown off the track completely. He could not make out whether they were speaking in jest or in earnest; every moment he heard them shift opinions and it shocked him to see how the selfsame fellow could defend such contradictory ideas.
At times a veiled allusion, a criticism concerning this one or that, would exasperate the entire conclave in so violent a manner that every word quivered with overtones of rage, and beneath the simplest phrases could be detected the pulse of hatred, envy, and mortifying, aggressive malice.
In addition to these young men, almost all of them with venomously sharp tongues, there used to come to the studio two persons who remained tranquil and indifferent amidst the furor of the discussions. One was already somewhat old, serious, thin; his name was Don Servando Arzubiaga. The other, of the same age as Alex, was called Santín. Don Servando, although a man of letters, was devoid of literary vanity, or, if he possessed any, kept it so deep down, so subterraneous, that none could discern it.
He came to the studio for relaxation; with cigarette between his lips he would listen to the varying opinions, smiling at the exaggerations and joining the conversation with some conciliatory word.
Bernardo Santín, the younger of the indifferent members, did not open his mouth; it was exceedingly difficult for him to understand how men could battle like that over a purely literary or artistic question.